The shift was instant.
Barcelona's defenders had just started to find their rhythm when Griezmann charged into Puyol, forcing a hurried clearance. Natalio was hot on Valdés' heels, almost managing to poke the ball away before it got to Busquets. Even Joel and Luna pushed forward, challenging Dani Alves and Abidal to leave gaps behind them.
The commentators could hardly wrap their heads around it.
Julio Maldonado exclaimed, "What's happening with Tenerife? They're pressing Barcelona high up the pitch! This is bold!"
Carlos Martínez added, "González is taking a risk. He's not just looking to survive until penalties — he's aiming for victory."
For a brief moment, it worked. Barcelona, so accustomed to controlling the game, seemed rattled. Valdés mishit a clearance that went out for a throw-in. Piqué had to scramble back as Neymar suddenly bore down on him, shoulder to shoulder.
The Tenerife fans erupted, feeling the adrenaline with every sprint.
Meanwhile, Pep Guardiola stood composed on the sidelines, arms crossed, his gaze sharp. He recognized the gamble. He understood the stakes.
And on the field, Messi began to drift once more.
Tenerife was on the attack as Barcelona worked the ball around at the back. Puyol, feeling the pressure, played it inside to Busquets. Griezmann was closing in, and Casemiro was right on his tail — but Busquets, with that brilliant one-touch play, slipped the ball perfectly between them to Iniesta.
With a quick turn and a smooth glide forward, he broke through the press.
The stadium held its breath.
Iniesta took off with the ball, covering thirty yards while Tenerife scrambled to keep up. He passed it left to Messi, who made that signature move, cutting inside Joel with a deft drop of his shoulder.
Laurence felt a rush of excitement. He could almost picture the net rippling.
Messi's shot curved low toward the far post —
— but Aragonéses leaped. With a powerful, desperate dive, he managed to punch it wide.
The Tenerife keeper bellowed at his defense, his neck straining with intensity. The underdogs were still in the game.
By the 70th minute, both teams were feeling the strain. Barcelona's patience was wearing thin, while Tenerife's players were running on fumes. Neymar was still darting around with his usual energy, but even he started glancing at the clock. Casemiro's shirt was soaked with sweat, and his tackles were slowing down.
Laurence shouted until his voice was hoarse. "One more run! One more tackle!"
Victor tugged at his sleeve. "They're getting tired. We need a sub. Someone fresh."
Laurence didn't catch that. His eyes were glued to Neymar, who was drifting wide, arms waving for the ball.
And then it happened.
A loose pass from Dani Alves was intercepted by Luna. He quickly tapped it to Kikoto, who sent it right into Neymar's path. Suddenly, space opened up.
The Mestalla crowd erupted.
Neymar sprinted past Busquets, cutting inside with that signature flick of his ankle. Piqué tried to block him, but the Brazilian slipped the ball through his legs and kept going.
The crowd went wild.
He reached the box. Valdés came out, hands poised. Neymar dropped his shoulder, cut inside again — and fired.
The ball soared toward the top corner.
Time slowed.
Laurence's hands gripped his temples. Victor was frozen, half-standing. The Tenerife bench leaned forward as one.
The Mestalla held its breath.
Valdés leapt. His fingertips brushed it. The ball tipped against the bar — and bounced straight down into the six-yard box.
And there, waiting, was Griezmann.
He lunged forward, foot swinging.
Contact.
The ball spun toward the open net —
—and the whistle blew.
_______
The scoreboard was seared into everyone's memory: Tenerife 2 – 1 Barcelona. Just ten minutes left on the clock.
Laurence González stood in the technical area, adrenaline coursing through him, his shirt stuck to his back. His throat felt raw from all the shouting, yet he continued to bark orders, pacing the sideline like a man on the brink of a cliff. Each second dragged on, heavy and suffocating. He could almost feel the weight of history pressing down on him.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Not here. Not against Pep Guardiola's Barcelona, a team already hailed as one of the greatest ever.
But it was happening.
His bold strategy — the press, the chaos — had rattled them. Tenerife had dared to take on giants, and for a moment, it was working. Guardiola's squad looked… human.
Yet Laurence was acutely aware. Ten minutes against Barcelona could stretch into an eternity of torment.
Across the pitch, Pep stood still, arms crossed, his expression as unyielding as stone. But his players had kicked into high gear. Iniesta's touches were like silk igniting. Xavi was conducting the game, stirring up a tempest. Messi, low to the ground, weaved between defenders as if searching for a weakness only he could detect.
Laurence noticed it before anyone else. Casemiro had pressed too high — just one step too eager — and Messi seized the moment. With a burst of speed, he left two defenders in his wake and was suddenly barreling straight toward the heart of Tenerife.
"Messi!" Carlos Martínez exclaimed in commentary. "He's through the middle — just one man to beat—"
The left foot curled, arcing, spinning toward the far post. For a split second, it felt like time itself held its breath.
It missed. By mere inches.
The Mestalla let out a collective groan, caught between shock and relief.
Laurence clenched his fists at his sides, his jaw tight. That was the warning. A stark reminder that ten minutes could stretch into an endless nightmare.
"Keep your lines!" he shouted, gravelly urgency in his voice. "Don't waste energy!"
His players nodded, but their bodies told a different story. Fatigue was creeping in, dragging their feet through thick mud, dulling their reactions.
It was Piqué. Usually so calm and collected, but Tenerife's relentless pressing had really gotten to him. Natalio, the indefatigable forward who had spent the whole evening chasing shadows, made one last dash — and this time, it was perfectly timed.
He nudged the ball away. Suddenly, he was off, with nothing but open grass ahead and the crowd gasping in disbelief.
"¡Natalio!" Martínez's voice trembled with excitement. "He's taken it! This could be the moment!"
Valdés charged forward, legs pumping, arms spread wide.
Natalio lifted the ball gently, with precision, and watched as it sailed over the keeper's shoulder and nestled into the back of the net.
Chaos erupted.
Julio Maldonado's voice broke into a scream. "¡GOOOOOOOOL DE TENERIFE! Natalio! Pure madness at the Mestalla!"
The Tenerife bench erupted in jubilation. Victor sprinted a few yards before collapsing into an assistant's arms. Laurence didn't join the celebration; instead, he turned, arms raised, gazing at the crowd as if urging them to etch this moment into their memories. His face was flushed with disbelief, joy bubbling over.
In the VIP box, Miguel Concepción stood frozen, struggling to comprehend what he had just witnessed. Even the neutral fans around him were clapping, caught up in the sheer audacity of it all.
Next to him, Mauro Pérez shook his head, muttering, "This is madness." But the grin on his face gave him away.
On the pitch, Natalio was engulfed by teammates, buried under a mountain of white shirts. But Laurence was already back on the sidelines, waving them down urgently.
"Back! Everyone back!" His voice sliced through the chaos. "Ten minutes! Defend with everything you've got!"
And that's exactly what they did.
Pep sprang into action without a moment's hesitation. He cleared his bench, bringing on Pedro, Jeffrén, and Bojan. Dani Alves tossed aside any thoughts of defense, charging down the wing like a second striker. Even Piqué pushed forward, almost taking on the role of a forward himself. Barcelona's formation twisted into something almost unrecognizable — a spear aimed straight at Tenerife's heart.
Yet, the islanders held their ground.
Joel threw himself in front of shots. Luna battled Alves for every ball. Casemiro, exhausted but undeterred, lunged into tackles that looked like they belonged in a war highlight reel, not a football match. Aragoneses, weathered and worn, swatted away crosses with fists of steel.
"Barcelona are throwing everything but the kitchen sink!" shouted Martínez.
"But Tenerife…" Maldonado's tone shifted to one of awe, almost in disbelief. "…they're standing firm. They're fighting like they're possessed."
Every pass from Xavi felt like a razor's edge. Every dribble from Messi felt like impending doom. Yet somehow, Tenerife's defense held strong.
Laurence didn't blink. He barely breathed. His mind raced with images — the island, the fans back home, the kids wearing borrowed shirts with names like Neymar and Griezmann scribbled on the back. This was more than just a match. It was a matter of pride. A fight for existence.
And still, the clock kept ticking.
Eighty-eight minutes.
Ninety.
The fourth official raised the board: Five minutes added.
The Mestalla erupted. Barcelona surged once more, bodies pouring forward. Tenerife was now in deep water, clinging to whatever they could find. Neymar was back defending, Griezmann sprinting to cover. Natalio, the hero, had nothing left in his legs but still pressed on, still chased, still fought.
Then came the moment.
Ninety-two minutes. Messi dropped deep, collected the ball, and surged. He slipped between Casemiro and Kitoko as if they weren't there, his balance supernatural, his pace untouchable. Tenerife's box yawned open.
"Messi!" Martínez screamed. "Still Messi — cutting inside—"
Laurence's heart stopped.
Messi raised his foot. The ball was already shaping toward the corner.
The entire stadium leaned forward as one.
And then—